I knew hundreds of officers who would never behave the way Mercer had.
Yet my body reacted to the sight of flashing lights before my mind could make sense of them.
Eventually, I sought support from a qualified counselor who worked with people recovering from frightening incidents.
She didn't treat my professional knowledge as proof that I should be unaffected.
She asked what I remembered.
What situations triggered the fear.
And what I needed to regain a sense of safety.
During one appointment, I told her something I hadn't said aloud before.
"I feel embarrassed."
She looked toward me.
"Why?"
I stared at my hands.
"Because I train people to remain calm during difficult encounters, and I keep replaying mine."
She considered the answer.
Then asked, "Would you tell someone else that being frightened meant they'd failed?"
I shook my head.
"No."
"Then why are you telling yourself that?"
For several seconds, I couldn't answer.
The question stayed with me.
I began recognizing how easy it was to expect myself to be stronger than the people I wanted to help.
As though having expertise meant I had forfeited the right to be shaken.
But professional knowledge didn't make the sound of breaking glass less frightening.
And my appointment didn't make the encounter less humiliating.
It simply gave me a different set of tools for understanding what had happened afterward.
My mother came to visit one Saturday afternoon.
She found me sitting at the kitchen table reading a draft department policy on evidence preservation.
She glanced at the paper.
Then at me.
"Working again?"
I smiled faintly.
"Apparently."
She sat opposite me.
For several minutes, we drank tea.
Then she asked whether I'd received any news about my own case.
I told her the independent investigation was continuing.
She nodded.
Then looked toward the window.
For a moment, she seemed far away.
Finally, she said, "I've been thinking about that stop I had when you were little."
I looked up.
I hadn't discussed it with her in years.
She smiled sadly.
"You remember?"
"Every detail you told me."
Her eyes filled.
For several seconds, she was quiet.
Then she said, "I think what hurt most wasn't the questions."
I listened.
"It was that he seemed to enjoy making me nervous."
My throat tightened.
She continued.
"I kept trying to explain that I was a teacher, that I lived nearby, that the car was mine. I thought if I found the right words, he'd understand I wasn't doing anything wrong."
She looked toward her hands.
"But it seemed like every explanation gave him another reason to be irritated."